The Demigod Proving (67 page)

Wrend shook his head. It seemed impossible. Dangerous.

“There’s so much I was never told. So much to learn. Why aren’t you down there, fighting with the Hasuken?”

Naresh sighed with frustration.

“They’re bloodthirsty. I told them I have no interest in conquest over Locaran, but their minds are set.”

“The Hasuken are going to invade Locaran?”

“About eight years ago I started my work in Hasuke, to bring down the god of that country. I recruited many priests. My goal was a peaceful coup, but they had ideas of their own, and killed their god. Now, they’ve turned their eyes north, to Locaran. Against my wishes, they allied with the apostate Caretakers, and made a plan to take over the country—starting with the slaughter of all the Novitiates in the Seraglio.”

A dull distrust rubbed in Wrend’s belly. Naresh didn’t seem to be telling him everything. He painted events in a light that made him look innocent. Was he, really?

“You mean, you didn’t do those things, but you prompted them to do them?”

“No, I would do it a different way. In fact, you were my experiment for doing it a different way, but you’ve ruined my plans.” He frowned and shook his head. “If you weren’t so stubborn, we’d all be much better off now.”

“How so?” Leenda said.

“I
wanted
Wrend to inherit Athanaric’s kingdom. Then, over time, we set the people free, and teach them that he wasn’t a god, that Athanaric wasn’t a god, that Pyter isn’t a god.”

Wrend grunted. None of it surprised him anymore, but it didn’t ease the guilt stabbing at his belly. He’d betrayed the Master, and been at least in part responsible for his brother’s death—even though he’d done his best to convince his brother to let him be. None of that felt good. His wrists, pale where the bracers had always covered them, felt naked. His hips felt strangely unbalanced without the sacrificial knife.

But, he felt gladness to no longer serve a god that killed his own children and pitted brother against brother. He’d gained freedom to do and act as he pleased, to live as he wanted.

Was it worth the price?

Yes. Yes it was.

“What do we do now?” he said, not certain he wanted to take Naresh’s answer at face value, or trust anything he said.

Naresh shrugged and looked out over the battle.

“We come up with a new plan.”

His eyes narrowed, and he squinted down at the chaos and tilted his head to one side with a frown. After a moment, his expression changed to one of confusion.

Wrend followed his gaze, but could only see the turmoil of the battle.

“What are you looking at?” he said.

“Didn’t you say that Teirn was dead?”

“Yes.”

Naresh shook his head and pointed. “You’re wrong. He’s alive, and is headed this way.”

Chapter 91: Saved

From the first day I learned about the potential need to kill my brother, I loathed the idea.

-Teirn

Teirn awoke to a blue sky, considerable pain searing his skin, and a great deal of noise: shouting, metal clashing, and weeping. A haze covered everything—not only his vision, but also his brain. It was as if a heavy veil lay over his mind.

It took him a moment to realize that his mother knelt over him, her head on his chest, her sobs punctuating the sound of battle. Above and around him, paladins stood in several concentric circles with their backs to him, swords ready. Just past them, a battle raged. Hasuken men hacked at paladins, who in turn swiped at the men—who moved with such grace and speed they clearly used Ichor. That didn’t surprise Teirn. After all, even his mother could use Ichor. He had no idea how that could be, or what it meant.

He inhaled as if taking his first breath in days. Air burned in his lungs, rattled in his throat. He groaned.

Calla sat up and gaped at him. Tears streaked the dirt on her cheeks. Her eyes met his, and elation replaced the grief.

“You’re alive. You’re alive!”

He shook his head, trying to clear the haze. He shouldn’t have been alive. He’d fallen into a thicket of poison sage.

Everything came rushing back to him. In a moment of clarity, the events of the last two weeks bombarded his head, foremost among them how, in his dying moments, Wrend had fed a surge of power and health into his body.

Wrend had saved him.

“Wrend,” he said. His voice sounded like an old hinge.

New tears rand down his mother’s face.

“He’s betrayed your father. That means that you’ve won. You will be god.”

Even through the film over his mind and the blur of his vision, he could see the joy on his mother’s face, and knew it didn’t derive from his being alive. Not really. As it ever had, ambition gleamed there, only now triumph joined it—the fruition of years of work in a hard-won victory. Her son would be god, and she would rule through him.

For the first time in Teirn’s life, since he’d learned that one day the Master would choose between him and Wrend, everything seemed clear.

“Where’s Wrend?” he said.

Calla looked up at the western butte. “He flew with a draegon up there. Your father pursued, but they got away.”

Teirn, ignoring the searing in his muscles, tried to push her aside and stand, but she pressed her weight down on him, holding him down. He was too weak to move her. A paladin looked down at him, uninterested yet dutiful in its protection.

“What are you doing?” Calla said.

She continued to hold him down, but something was wrong with her. Tightness surrounded her eyes and she winced repeatedly. She seemed to hold her weight in an abnormal manner.

“Are you hurt?” he said, still trying to sit up.

She nodded, and pulled the hem of her skirts up. Her legs, covered down to the knees in dirt-stained undershorts, twisted at painful angles in unnatural places.

“Wrend broke my legs.”

“What? How?”

Nearby, a man plowed into the group of paladins, nearly penetrating the circles before being repulsed in a flurry of metal.

Calla covered her legs again.

“I was finishing off that redhead, and he tackled me off of her. In the fall, my legs got twisted and broke.”

Teirn’s indignation faded. Wrend had only defended the redhead. Surely, with Calla injured, he could have killed her easily if he wanted to, but instead he’d chosen to escape.

Again, Teirn struggled to rise, but she pushed him down. His body still felt weak, and he could hardly resist. Not without a little help.

“What are you doing?” she said.

He focused on his discernment. With a quick binding and application, he pushed his mother off. She fell backward, crying out in pain and surprise, and collided with a paladin.

Teirn leapt to his feet despite the protest of his entire body, and stood over her.

“I’m going to my brother.”

Chapter 92: Renewal

Most people do not regard the concept of “brotherhood” as highly as they should.

-Wrend

“I can’t see him,” Wrend said.

Relief at Teirn’s survival filled him, mixing with the fear over what Teirn would do. Leenda stood next to Wrend, holding one hand in both of hers and watching the crowd. The draegon laid a little ways back, away from the edge of the cliff, apparently uninterested in what they looked at.

Wrend squinted down at the battlefield, but could only see the horde of paladins advancing through the gaps in the broken wall; and further south, the frontline of the battle. And all of that was three hundred feet down. How could Naresh even see Teirn moving among the throng?

“Give it a moment,” Naresh said. “Once he reaches the base of the cliff, you’ll see him.”

Wrend scanned the crowd, especially near the bottom of the butte, and soon Teirn emerged from the throng, heading straight for the slope below Wrend.

“Amazing,” Leenda said. “I thought you killed him.”

Wrend shook his head. “I thought he was dead, but I didn’t kill him. He fell into some poison sage, and I pulled him out.”

Naresh furrowed his brow. “He still should’ve died.”

“You should have killed him, at least,” Leenda said.

Wrend shrugged. “I have enough blood on my hands.”

Teirn reached the base of the cliff, looked up at the group without gesturing, and began to jump up it, just as Leenda and Wrend had done on the other butte.

Naresh gave Wrend an intense stare. “What will you do with him now? What if he tries to kill you again?”

Wrend shrugged. “I won’t kill him. I’m done with killing.”

“In the times to come, that goal may be impossible to hold to.”

Wrend didn’t look at Naresh. He didn’t know what times would come, or what he would do, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t want to kill, anymore.

“I’ll do my best to hold to it.”

As Teirn approached them, they backed away from the edge of the cliff, to stand near the draegon. He growled and barked, and rolled his head from side to side. Leenda shook her head at him with tight lips and raised eyebrows.

“We can protect ourselves, thank you very much,” she said. “There’s no need to eat anyone.”

When Teirn came over the top of the ridge, he landed on a rock about twenty feet from Wrend, and took a moment to orient himself to the surroundings. He stood gingerly, as if dealing with significant pain. From the blood and dirt covering his skin and torn clothing, he looked half dead. Blood still filled the one eye that a cactus needle had punctured, but blood no longer flowed. Instead, it had dried on his cheeks in a red streak. A blotchy redness covered the skin of his neck, hands, and torso where it was visible through his ripped shirt and pants. Most of the bloating had subsided.

He stared at Wrend, his face unreadable, and Wrend looked back. A wind arose, sudden and strong, blowing from Wrend’s right to his left, out over the battlefield. He shivered.

“I’ve realized,” Teirn said. He took a deep breath and released it over several seconds, his eyes locked with Wrend’s. “I’ve realized that you’re right. And I beg your forgiveness for everything I’ve done.”

Hope swelled in Wrend’s chest.

“With me gone, you could be god—uncontested.”